


this paper-thin tragedy we play

by penombrelilas (crookedspoon)



Series: Days Gone By [39]
Category: Tennis no Oujisama | Prince of Tennis
Genre: Angst, Community: 31_days, Community: prompt_in_a_box, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Not Quite Gen, Post-Series, Wordcount: 1.000-3.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-02
Updated: 2009-12-02
Packaged: 2017-12-09 14:44:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/775396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crookedspoon/pseuds/penombrelilas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>There are news you want to clog your ears to if it made them less real.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	this paper-thin tragedy we play

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompts Dec 2nd "if the ground should come alive" at 31_days and #9 "Life is pain and the enjoyment of love is an anaesthetic." (Cesare Pavese) at prompt_in_a_box's Round 20 (revisited)  
> 

Finally home, the moment he has been waiting for all day. He rushes to the answering machine, pushes the play button. Come on, there have to be new messages. The female voice crackling out of the black box crushes his hopes, though: there are none. There never are when you're waiting for any.

His fingers card through the mail, an automatic motion. He doesn't expect to find anything of importance, he just needs something to do with his hands. A quick survey tells him he is right, a 2:1 ratio of bills and ads.

When he received the message this morning, it shook the ground beneath his feet. Since then, the sense of urgency -- of displacement -- he feels has increased tenfold. He fumbles for his cellphone, punches in his father's number and taps his fingers against the kitchen counter as he paces up and down, waiting for the first ring. Pick up already.

It never comes. Instead, another female voice informs him in its computer-generated friendliness that his contact is currently unavailable. Damn it, he's probably still at the hospital.

How is he supposed to find out if she's all right?

It's 18:23. He could try to catch a train to Osaka, go to the hospital when he arrives and check on her in person. They would probably let him see her even in the middle of the night, he's a family member, after all.

There are holes in his plan though, he has to admit. How would he buy a ticket if he already has trouble paying the rent? And which hospital was that again; did his father even mention?

He briefly considers booting up his Mac to check his emails, but discards the thought again. His father never uses electronic devices any more than he has to outside from work and would sooner have texted him than sat down to type on a machine.

A shrill ring pops his thought bubble, his hand vibrates. He answers his cell without looking.

"Yes?" He strains for a semblance of composure, of calm, but that is all it is: a semblance, seeming to be something that it's not.

"Hey, Kurarin! Guess what, you won a rendezvous at the movies. I just decided. Lucky, aren't you?"

"Seiichi," Shiraishi breathes. It's not the voice he expected to hear, but that doesn't make it any less welcome. The familiar tone and the light-hearted way he invited him out have a soothing effect, but he cannot access that level of small-talk now, he's in his own mind-sphere, unable to fully comprehend the needs of the other. He feels pressed; he imagines his father may call any second, but he doesn't want to hang up just yet.

"I thought you could use a little change of location, get you out of your apartment for a little while, cheer you up, you know?" Seiichi continues.

Shiraishi squeezes the bridge of his nose; he doesn't really know how to reply. "Listen, Seiichi. I don't really feel up for anything today. You just go and do your thing and I'll just, I don't know--"

"You don't wanna go out on a Friday evening? Come on, let's be students for a change! We don't have to study or worry about our coming exams all the time." He pauses for emphasis. "But, if you really don't feel like going out, we can just hang out together, watch DVDs or you can just laze around and let me sketch you. How does that sound?" Seiichi says, unstoppable like a cheetah at full speed. If Seiichi puts his mind to something, it requires skill to shake him. Skill Shiraishi doesn't possess. He usually ends up giving in.

Which doesn't mean he never tries. "I'm sorry, but I'd rather be alone tonight. Next time, okay?"

Seiichi doesn't answer. A tiny sigh escapes Shiraishi's lips, barely audible, like conversations in a dream. He hopes he didn't affront him or anything.

It's all too easy. Seiichi likes to play the victim, likes to tease Shiraishi that way.

"What a pity, after I went all this way to get here." This time, Seiichi's voice comes from behind him.

Shiraishi whips his head around. Right there in the living room Seiichi stands, shifting his weight from one foot to another. "How--?" Shiraishi starts, but the sound dies in his throat.

"On foot, perhaps? I still haven't learned to fly." Seiichi flashes his teeth.

Shiraishi just stares. He notices that he's still pressing his cellphone to his ear, disconnects and lets his arm dangle. "No. I mean how did you get _in_ here?"

"Oh, that." Seiichi chuckles, a sound like falling rain, and fishes out a bunch of keys. He holds them up with his index finger. "Remember that day you couldn't find your keys no matter where you looked?"

Shiraishi nods slowly; he remembers.

"You searched like crazy, went over the same place several times and later found them in the kitchen," Seiichi says. "Well, I took 'em and had a copy made." There is no guilt apparent in his tone or the rest of him. He just does things like that when he wants to, without ever saying please or thank you.

Shiraishi shakes his head, "I should have known." Seiichi probably expects _him_ to say thanks for returning his keys.

"Anyway, what's up? Why aren't you in the mood to hang out with me?" he asks, moving up to the sofa. It doesn't sound like he's interested in the answer. He kicks off the guest slippers Shiraishi keeps in the front of his apartment, sits down and tucks his feet under. Nope, the answer really isn't all that important. "I'm bored, you know," he adds, almost as an afterthought.

Shiraishi huffs. It's not an afterthought, never that; it's calculating and expectant. "Don't make it sound like it's my fault."

"If you send me away now, it will be." Seiichi rests his chin on the palm of his right hand and smiles, a ray of light in the darkened room. His eyes, though, hold something mischievous, as though he was mentally sticking out his tongue.

Shiraishi scrubs a hand through his hair and groans, for added effect. "You can be a pest sometimes, know that?"

It works, Seiichi's mock serious face slips and he's chuckling, a short and rising bout, like bubbles rushing to the surface of the water. Then his face straightens again. "Still, that doesn't answer my question."

Shiraishi doesn't feel like joking around. The surprise of seeing Seiichi in his apartment all of a sudden, like a ghost or an epiphany, made him forget for a moment. The tight feeling in his chest has been there the whole time, but it didn't feel as urgent, pressing him to do anything but slow down. "It's just, there are things occupying my mind. I couldn't enjoy the time with you, when my head's constantly circling around them."

Seiichi cocks his head, like a curious bird. He doesn't like the smell of excuses. "What kind of things?"

"You don't have to play psychotherapist now. It's the last thing I need." Shiraishi doesn't need his psyche analyzed when it's tearing in unknown directions. His strength is dissipating, seeping out of him like sand through a sieve. He's tired; he slumps onto the sofa.

"I'm not leaving until you've told me." Seiichi nudges Shiraishi with a foot. Does he really want to know? Shiraishi cannot tell genuine concern from Seiichi's need to quench his curiosity. Once he bites, he won't let go until it bleeds.

He's not up for any kind of power struggle, evading just to spite. He sighs, then begins. "It's my mother. My father called this morning. He said my mother had collapsed yesterday night, that she's in hospital now. He didn't know why, the doctors couldn't tell him anything definite yet. Maybe it was a stroke, I don't know. I'm waiting for him to call again, to tell me if she's alright." He pauses, takes a deep breath. His mother's smile surfaces in his mind, that soft smile he associates with the smooth taste of green tea – her very own blend – and hopes he will see it again.

Seiichi just looks at him and not a muscle in his face twitches, expression blank as a paper doll. He's quiet with his concern, pragmatic, does not dole it out with great words that implode because they're empty.

"You know, he sounded really upset. I've never heard him like that before. This may sound strange, heartless even, but I always thought my father would be the first to have anything happen to him. We both thought so. Just because he's that much older. Gods, how stupid can you get?"

Seiichi leans close, hooks an arm around Shiraishi's shoulder. "Those things happen when they happen. There is nothing you can do about them." His lips are chilly when he kisses Shiraishi's temple, but it sends a warm shiver down his spine. "I'm sorry I can't be of any help."

Shiraishi shakes his head. "No. You asked, I told you. I didn't expect anything from you. But, let me just say talking helps." He would not have thought it would, but he feels somewhat calmer now, lighter, more collected. His fears have been spelled out, bound into spoken words that linger in his ears, outside of himself, and weaken their power over him.

Yes, it's freeing to rationalize his feelings, stills the ground beneath his feet that has been rumbling ever since his father called. Now, a bout of anger rises inside of him, as if it found a way past the receding agitation out of nowhere, but it has gone unheeded all this time. Why had he called anyway? Did he expect him to fly to Osaka at once? There is nothing that Shiraishi could have done to help him; he would go down to the temple later and pray for his mother's quick recovery. That's all he can think of, all he can do.

Shiraishi exhales and squeezes Seiichi's hand. He tells himself that's what you do: keep your family informed. It constitutes their importance. If they mean anything to you and you to them, you will share your pain, even if they think they would be better off not knowing. In the end, they will thank you – after all, how sad would it be if they don't know about something so important, however terrible it may be?

And maybe his father, too, needed a familiar voice to reassure him. For his sake, Shiraishi hopes his sister Karin stays by his side, their side (his father's _and_ mother's), hopes it is not too hard on her, to stay strong for him and herself. She's a timid creature; he has never been able to gauge her strength.

The sensation of Seiichi's fingers on his scalp slowly lure him away from trying to determine his sister's toughness. It's too late, anyway; if he doesn't know now, he never will.

"Is there something I can do for you?" Seiichi asks, although he knows there isn't. It's the manners and the silence that hangs between them like a plume of smoke, dark and suffocating.

It has already sucked Shiraishi in, hangs over him, around him, and he breathes it, never noticing that the acrid particles burn away his voice. There is not a sound he can utter without tripping over his vocal chords, breaking them. When that happens, the riptide is going to tear him away. It's the last remaining dam.

A different current draws him close to Seiichi in a tender collision of hands, skin, lips. He trains his mind, his body, his senses, on Seiichi – phonecalls forgotten; he needs the reassurance of his presence, the realness of his taste, needs to shut out the sting that branches out in his chest, buds into an ugly, festering fruit. He wants to forget, for just one sweet moment, the fear, the pain of living. The reminder of your own mortality and that of your loved ones is too much to bear. He imagines how great the fear must be for his father, imagines how he would feel in the same situation. It's like something dies within him. His kisses grow with fever and ferocity.

He imagines this is how Siddharta must have felt, when he drowned in the arms of Kamala for the last time and he realized like never before that lust was a cousin of death. It's a momentary escape, a numbing of the self, a combination of two souls in search for something greater than themselves. Call it romantic overinterpretation, if you will.

"I'm not going anywhere," Seiichi grits out and it's then that Shiraishi realizes he has been begging him not to leave, pleading like a child in this most vulnerable of moments. He doesn't know why he did it or where it came from, this idea to confess to Seiichi that he needs him. Control over his actions is slipping.

Part of him feels sick for wanting this to flee from reality, from this sense of space and time, of past and present, of the inevitable future you unlock trickle by trickle. For not worrying about his mother when he should, but it's something else that Shiraishi needs right now: to trade the raging storm of his mind for another, more passionate one, one that leads him to the static of the soul, that one peaceful moment at the peak of experience, where everything blanks out, where values blur and meaning suffuses everything in equal parts.

Where he unravels to thread himself together again.


End file.
